Detox
by Blue Tears
Summary: Mark visits Roger in rehab. MR Friend!Love or Preslash.


**Title: **Detox

**Pairing:** Mark/Roger Friend!Love or Preslash

**Rating:** PG-13

**AN:** Written for prompt: _trip to the zoo._ This however is my own twist on that phrase...

**Disclaimer: **Idon't own, not mine, just playing with the characters.

**Detox**

As soon as Mark steps inside the stark lobby his every sense is assaulted by the sterile smell of cleansing chemicals and the sickeningly human undercurrent of stale sweat and vomit. He takes a deep breath, schooling his expression into one of apathy as the odd mixture fills his mouth and lungs until they burn with the acidity of cleanliness. Long tubes of florescent light burn his retinas, pupils contracting in response to the harsh glow. There is a dull hum of electricity coursing throughout the entire building, running like one big well-oiled machine. Quietly, barely above a whisper, he asks to visit a patient. White rubber soled shoes collide softly with the polished tiles as the nurse leads him down the corridor to the monitored visitor area.

The sound of muffled cries bleeds through the supposedly soundproof glass, pouring out into the hallway in a torrent of undeniable hurt and loneliness. Mark cannot help but imagine them to be caged animals, rattling the bars and howling desperately for release of their glorified prison. He ignores the sound; maybe if he does not hear them he can finally stop replaying the echo of Roger's whimpers those first few days. The sound reverberating in his mind late at night when the loft is so silent he cannot stand it. It is this inhumane noise that makes Mark's skin crawl, a chill rolling up his spine and wrapping itself around his memories of better times to taint them a gaudy red. Instead he focuses on the steadily increase rhythm of his breath, coming out in little puffs.

He sees the nurse come to a stop before the glass box of a room where patients and their guests can be supervised during a visit. Mark can see the thin figure of his best friend dress in a light green jumpsuit issued by the center. The young man looks as if he is on the verge of being swallowed up by the baggy clothing. He looks so tired. Exhausted. A breath away from collapsing again. Roger is slumped over a stainless steal table, his long fingers laced together upon the tabletop. Bleached blonde hair that has grown out an inch or so, giving way to the darker natural roots. The nurse unlocks the door with a small silver key before pushing it open. Mark's hands hang awkwardly at his sides as he steps into the doorway. Roger had begged him to leave the camera at home; he called it home. It was, to Mark's extensive knowledge about his longtime roommate, the first time Roger had ever called anything home.

Suddenly he is being enveloped in long bony arms; the boy's clavicles are so defined they dig into the flesh of his neck as Roger hugs him tightly around the throat. Once again Mark is nearly knocked sideways by the scent of sterile chemicals overpowering the familiar musk of his best friend. Thin wrists twist about his head and soft fingertips, calluses once hardened to perfection for the strings of an electric guitar, press against his scalp. Silently wrapping his arms around the thin frame, Mark can feel the brittle bones lying just beneath the battered skin. Roger tries to press himself impossibly closer into the warmth of Mark's unconditional comfort, pulling him closer and closer until he can image they are one being melded together along the length of their bodies. Roger practically feeds off these short visits falling on every other day.

"Hey buddy," Mark murmurs, stroking Roger's back as the boy refuses to let got of Mark. His fingers play over the topography of Roger's spine, following the dips and curves of his backbone before coming to rest on his razor-sharp hipbones. "C'mon Rog," Mark pleads quietly with his friend as he tugs gently at Roger's elbows, gingerly extracting himself from the viselike grip.

"Sorry," Roger mutters, stumbling back over to the chair he had been sitting in. There is no flush of embarrassment heating the flesh of Roger's cheeks. Mark follows his lead and takes a seat across from Roger. The musician simply stares at the dim reflection of Mark's patient face on the table for a few moments that seem to stretch on forever. Mark opens his mouth once before shutting it, finding himself at a loss for words. During one of the visits before, the two boys had sat in silence the whole time, exchanging words through body language and looks. Something in the pit of Mark's stomach churns unpleasantly as he watches Roger's fingers pull anxiously at the cuff of his shirt. Mark knows exactly what those fingers are itching to do. The uncontrollable urge overpowers the boy and he slowly pushes the cloth away in an attempt at control. Dull fingernails scrabble against the hideous track marks littering Roger's arm.

"Rog," Mark breathes and it is so twisted with despair and unbelievable hope that Roger stops and for the first time since being admitted, he looks Mark in the eye. The scrapping of the metal against tile fills the silence between he two friends as Roger pulls his chair over to sit next to Mark. He can feel the raw heat and anxious energy radiating off the other boy's body, pressed against his side as Roger leans into him, slipping his hand into Mark's before entwining their fingers.

"I-I meant it, Mark," he suddenly all too serious. Mark has never seen Roger like this before. Looking up at Mark from beneath heavy eyelashes, halfheartedly guarding his emotions from the filmmaker. "I'm sorry," it's a whispered admission of his wrongdoing. The Roger that Mark new would have never, ever admitted that he was human enough to err, flawed enough to fuck up so completely. Mark gave his best friend's hand a little squeeze of encouragement, pressing his forehead against Roger's. "For every-" the words fail him and Mark can see the telltale glint of wetness glossing over his dim eyes. "For," he tries to begin again before starting over completely. "I didn't mean to, to hurt you," Roger takes a shaky breath as if the weight of the world had been lifted from off his shoulders. Before he can let the floodgates open, apologizing for every raising his voice to Mark, he feels the shifting of the filmmaker.

Mark presses the palm of his freehand flat against Roger's rough cheek; no razorblades are given to patients. He screws his eyes shut. Cradling Roger's head, Mark presses a chaste kiss against the boy's temple as he whispers against the soft flesh, "you could never hurt me."

But he has, and he will continue to, and Mark knows it like he knows those discolored marks covering Roger's arms will never really fade away.

* * *

Collins looks around the empty loft. Taking a few steps inside he called out Mark's name once, twice before he tugs the door closed behind him. He turns around to twist the deadbolt when he comes face to face with a yellow sticky note slapped against the cold metal at eye level. Immediately his mind snaps back to the first call that Roger was allowed to make, two days after being admitted to rehab. The young musician had whispered into the phone to his roommates that the place was like a madhouse, bitterly muttering, "_it's like being trapped inside a zoo—it's for the animals own good you know._"

A melancholy smile twists his lips as he pulls of the note.

'_Collins,_

_Gone to the zoo. _

_Mark'_

"Better take care of that boy."

* * *


End file.
